


Through the Fire, We're Born Again

by Damara



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Gen, Nuclear Warfare, Post Game, Resist Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-04-29 08:04:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14468442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Damara/pseuds/Damara
Summary: I didn’t ask him to save my life. I haven’t asked him to feed me, or to occasionally allow me just enough freedom to piss. I owe him nothing.





	Through the Fire, We're Born Again

**Author's Note:**

> This was written a little self-indulgently. Nuclear warfare and its effects have always been an interest for me. I thought I would apply a little of what I know to what comes after. Please, go easy on me as far as realism! Let's be real with ourselves... Far Cry 5 and its explosive ending was far from realistic. This is merely a one-shot in a series that will eventually lead to Joseph/Female Dep.

The majority of the world wasn’t prepared for nukes spilling from the Heavens. Empty threats by emptier leaders left their populations jaded, burnt out. They were doomed long before the sirens cried their warnings and the sky fell.

See, the lucky ones were instantly vaporized. Just like that. Gone. Maybe a permanent shadow left cast on a wall, the only tribute to the human that once breathed and laughed and _lived_.

Move a little further out, the heat carried by the blast wreaks utter havoc. Turns out flesh and bone isn’t compatible with the gifts of radioactive explosions. Spilling outward from ground zero is an entire god damn rainbow of burn degrees. Ever loved the print of a shirt so much you wanted the design branded on your skin? Stand close enough, and your dreams can come true.

Stories from Hiroshima told of survivors silently roaming the streets, arms held out in front of them. What was once their clothing hung off of cherry red limbs like tattered rags. Here’s a real horror story for you: that wasn’t fabric.  _That was their fucking skin_. 

We were just slightly, _sliiightly_ too close to the first amongst many mushroom clouds that saw my entire life ripped to unrecognizable pieces. My clothes are in tact, my skin still in place. Once the bubble wrap of shock was torn off and senses were given life, the _agony_ began. Anything exposed to the blinding flash and that rolling cloud of heat is royally fucked, like I decided to take a nap on a beach and woke up to a fourth of my body in flames. Except, y'know. I'm handcuffed to a bed within a bunker at the end of the world, my naps unsolicited and my burns from radiation.

I shouldn’t joke. What a sick way to cope with my new reality. Denial is one hell of a drug. I keep telling myself to wake up. This is a bad dream. A terrible, awful, beyond fucked up nightmare that will follow me merely in memory. Wake up. Just wake up. Open your eyes and say hello to your needy little shit of a cat and  _forget Joseph Seed ever existed_.

Having been gifted with skin partial to tans left me completely unprepared for Hell's fire. Figures my first taste of sunburn would come along with a post-apocalyptic nightmare. Though, let's be honest, I shouldn't bitch. I wasn't the one to draw the shortest straw.

Joseph was shirtless.

Somewhere around his third attempt to force the cold contents of a can down my throat, I remained just lucid enough to catch a glimpse of his back before he shuffled out of the room, humming eerily to himself. Skin still bare, a deep shade of angry pink spread from his hairline to the waistband of his pants. My wince was completely involuntary. I said nothing.

This story wouldn't exist if not for logic eventually having its way. Not my conscience. Not the pull of Eden's Gate. Purple bruises ring my wrists from the cuff’s keeping me chained in place, for fuck’s sake. I didn’t ask him to save my life. I haven’t asked him to feed me, or to occasionally allow me just enough freedom to piss. _I owe him nothing_.

“Are you going to stop being a martyr and let me help you?” I speak with all the eloquence of someone that’s only used their throat for emptying their stomach contents and hours worth of the ugliest sobs possible. And see, I was nice. No insults.

I don’t miss the furrow of his brow, a lightning fast shift in features lost in the blink of an eye. He’s right back to slipping on a mask of serenity with a sickening ease.

“Worry not, my child.”

No, Joseph’s attempt to play the part of the proper religious icon bares its cracks. Small shifts of his body cast light on the glistening layer of sweat coating any skin left bare. Each time he checks on me comes with fewer cryptic ramblings about our new world. My last meal brought no words at all, his back not once touching the chair, pale lips pressed in a tight line. Silence speaks volumes. This man loves to hear the sound of his own voice.

"You can’t reach."

He says not jack shit. Pressing a spoon against my lips isn’t a response; he’s trying to get me to shut up. 

“ _Joseph_.” I’m evoking the spirit of my mother when I hiss his name between teeth that don't dare to part.

That clench of his jaw flies a red flag. I've come to understand this particular tic over the course of our entwined tragedy. Joseph is annoyed. Sharp moves see him withdrawn, his canned offering abandoned with a clatter at his feet.

I don't poke the flame. I hold my tongue. Not from fear, no. Hell no. His energy is matched by my own, the narrow of my eye making my stance very clear. I'm sick of this tortured cult leader bullshit. _What the fuck is his problem_? This must be some persecution deal: accepting help from human hands means turning his back on the will of God. His agony is punishment because he wasn't strong enough to keep his siblings alive.

Fuck that. Surviving alone in a nuclear wasteland is something reserved for video games. Whether either of us actually likes our sitcom setup or not, we need each other alive and in one piece.

We hold a stare so long, I'm not entirely certain he wasn't digging around in what little shreds remain of my soul. Joseph is the first one to allow bruised eyelids to fall shut. (Their beloved Father is a mere shell of his former self.)

And with a sigh to release the frustrations trapped in his lungs, he  _smiles_.

"Let your light shine before others," his eyes flick toward the ceiling, a single hand raising in testament to the concrete above, "so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father." The very same hand extends my way, palm up, open. "You're coming around."

I'm going to punch that grin right off his stupid, self-righteous face one day.

"Just take the cuffs off."


End file.
